


Your Star

by MaurianasRavenholdt



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Suicide, implied rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaurianasRavenholdt/pseuds/MaurianasRavenholdt
Summary: The ‘family’ is left reeling after they lose one of their own, and Jason is determined to find out what made the happiest among them take such drastic measures.





	1. Body

When the call came in over the police scanner that a body was found on top of a van, mangled from a 12 story drop, we didn’t give it much thought. It was November, after all, and suicides skyrocketed around the holidays. People got fucking desperate - no money, no family, no ho ho goddamned ho. It was enough to drive anyone over the edge. Literally. No alarm bells went off when we heard the description, either; Male, Caucasian (the officer _helpfully_ added ‘I think’), Early to Mid Twenties.

Honestly? There had been so many like it this month, it didn’t stand out. 

It wasn’t until we heard the address, and Demon Spawn said, “Isn’t that Grayson’s new building?” that we snapped to attention. Me, Tim, and Dami. You could practically hear our hearts stop at once. 

“I’ll call him.” Tim looked ashen, grabbing his phone and tapping on the contacts list, scrolling for his name, pressing ‘call’ and then ‘speaker’. We waited as it rang. 

And rang. 

And rang. 

Then, “Hey, you’ve reached Dick! Leave a message! **beep**”

Tim ended the call. 

“He’s probably on patrol,” Damian concluded, “Like _we_ should be. Not clucking and fretting like hens in a farmyard.” 

Little shit was always so fucking glib when it came to big stuff. The stuff that _really_ mattered. 

And the irritation and worry on my face must’ve been screaming because he decided it was a good idea to keep fucking talking. 

“What? Do you really think Grayson, a competent _acrobat,_ fell off his own roof?” 

Then Timmy looked at me and I swear I could feel him _shatter_ as his too-smart-for-his-own-good brain slammed the pieces of the last few months together. 

“No,” he croaked in reply, “we don’t think he fell.”

——-  
_**Six Months Ago**_

“Cover your six, Goldie!”

I was pissed. Nightwing always had a habit of ‘winging’ it (as he repeatedly and unironically would tell me) but this was fucking insane. We were just supposed to be scouting; a shipment of heroin, probably laced with fentanyl, was due at the docks that week. And because Black Mask and his drug business chaps _both_ our asses, we decided to team up. 

But the shipment was early, and ‘wing wanted to torch it before any of it could make it to the streets. It was as solid a plan as we could ever have with this kind of shit, so I was game. 

And then the goons piled in. Armed to the hilt and angry as hornets. And what do you know? That moron jumped into the fray anyway, feeding a few bozos their teeth before he even touched the ground. 

And I gotta say, I was impressed. I always was when I watched him work. It was like ballet, only more blood, fewer tutus, and a score set to the crunching of bone. 

Then it happened, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t catch me off guard. A bullet tagged him in the back of the shoulder. So I jumped in, too, screaming at him to not be such a self-sacrificing ass. Telling him to watch his own fucking back. 

Because I was _scared_. 

Because he didn’t even _notice_ it had happened until I had already broken the shooter’s femur. 

Because he was _distracted_. Which was so unlike him.

“What the hell, _Nightwing_? You could have fucking _died_!” 

He laughed. He _laughed_. No fake concern, no show of compassion. He laughed and said, “It worked out alright for you, thought I’d give it a try for myself.”

And it was like I was standing next to a stranger. Because _brothers_ know which buttons you really don’t press. The ones connected to a hurt so deep that you save it for a time when you need a nuclear option. 

This was _not_ one of those times. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” I couldn’t even bring myself to pepper the question with expletives. 

“Forget it. Sorry.” He mumbled a half-apology and gingerly examined his new wound. 

“Fuck you. I won’t _forget it_.” I tried to act angry but I was really just worried. I reached out, grabbed his arm, only planning on looking at his shoulder...

“Get your hands off me! Don’t _touch_ me!”

I stepped back so fast I almost fell on my ass. 

And I couldn’t breathe because somewhere deep in my guts I _knew_ what made someone react like that. Especially someone like Dick, who practically survived on sugary cereal and hugs. I was so fucking shocked I almost missed the whisper that followed. 

“Please...don’t touch me.” 

——-

_ **Now** _

There’s a sound, a keening, unmistakable cry that claws out of a parent when they lose a child. I’d heard it before. An inhuman screech of disbelief, of anguish, of the deepest human suffering. The first time I was just a kid, hiding in an alley, minding my own damn business, when a gang fight had gone wrong and a mother stepped onto her stoop to find her son shot dead in the street. 

This time, I heard it through layers of stone and steel, as clearly as if I was in the same room. _This_ time it was Bruce, above us, in the manor. Getting _the_ call. The one Tim deduced we’d be getting just minutes before. 

Dick was dead. 

No. Worse. 

He’d _jumped_. 

Happy-go-lucky, Golden Boy, PJs-and-Saturday-Morning-Cartoons Grayson killed himself. 

And none of us saw it coming. 

None of us _wanted_ to see it, barreling down on us. Because Dick was the ‘happy’ one. The ‘well-adjusted’ one. 

Or maybe just the best at a con. And we all fell for it. 

I was so lost in my vibrating rage that I didn’t hear Damian, his usually arrogant voice now small and disbelieving, “What’s going on? What do you mean you _don’t think he fell_?” 

Tim shook his head, ignoring the question. “We should go upstairs. Bruce and Alfred, they’ll _need_ us.” 

“No,” I yelled, “Fuck, no. Someone fucking did this to him. To _us_. And they are going to pay. The old men can figure their own shit out without us sitting shiva. Something _happened_ to Dick that made him do this.”

“Do what? What do you mean you ‘don’t think he fell’!? Grayson didn’t... he wouldn’t...” the reality finally dawned on Damian. 

“He did. But I’m going to find out why.”

_And that’s a fucking promise._


	2. Mind

Twelve stories.

Not the five of his old building in Blüdhaven. The one Blockbuster blew to hell. Instinct would have kicked in and he might’ve survived that.

Twelve.

A deadly drop. But not long enough for him to actually _enjoy_ the free-fall before the end. This wasn’t a whim.

He fucking _planned_ this.

“You’re wrong!” Damian had snapped from despondent to enraged. “Grayson did _not_ kill himself. Someone pushed him, threw him...”

How do you explain to an eleven year old that there is more than one way to push someone to their death? That maybe we’d all been inching him towards the ledge for years? Leaning on him too hard to be our funny and witty conscience every goddamned minute of every day? I would have tried to _make_ him make sense of it. Except Bruce was in the cave, now. Taking each step in a daze.

No. Maybe not Bruce. A shadow of what was left of the man. Like his soul had been torn from his chest. And maybe it had. Dick was the soul for all of us.

God, we’re fucking selfish. How much of our own shit had we piled on Dick’s shoulders? On top of everything else he’d been through.

The apartment, the circus, Blockbuster...

Now Dick.

All gone.

Bruce looked at us with empty, glassy eyes. He steeled his jaw and sucked in a breath, fighting to keep it from hitching in sobs. Still trying to be the fucking patriarch he thought we needed.

Tim saved him the effort, “We know, Bruce. Heard it on the scanner a few minutes ago. They’re sure it’s him?”

“Building super ID’d him. Said he saw Dick headed to the roof earlier this evening, asked him to open the access door. They need me downtown to make the final...” he stopped speaking suddenly, like the words were strangling him.

We looked at each other, the three remaining ‘sons’, and waited. Normally it would be Dick that would chime in at a time like this, bolstering us, making it all feel bearable with that goofy fucking smile...

What was the song?

_“Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you got till it’s gone” _

Christ. He hadn’t been dead for one fucking hour and we _already_ needed him.

“I’ll go with you,” Tim said finally. Which was fine, because I didn’t think I could be there for Bruce the way he needed now. I think the only person who could _really_ keep him together...

Goddamnit, Dickie.

Why didn’t you tell us you were falling apart?

Or did you, and we were just too wrapped up in ourselves to see it?

——-

** _Five Months Ago_ **

My stupid fucking mouth.

Dick had been ‘flying solo’ a lot recently. So when he showed up unannounced for a gig, it was like the heavens opened up and graced us with His Perfectness. All games aside, we were glad to have him. Mostly because we needed bait. A bunch of chicks calling themselves “Hit and Run Girls” were seducing rich men at clubs, taking them to hotels, then robbing them blind. And I would _not_ have been in on interrupting this clever bit of Robin Hood Justice, but they left the last guy dead in bed. And he just _happened_ to be a Wayne Board Member. So it was all bat-boys on active duty.

I guess I should have left it alone when I volunteered Dickie as tribute, and he balked. I thought, when is he ever _not_ up for a performance? I swear he carries a spotlight in his back pocket. But like I said - my stupid fucking mouth decided to push it.

“C’mon ‘Wing, what’s the worst that could happen? They hold you down and you get a couple minutes of hot action before the calvary comes? Since when do you turn down a chance to use your ‘assets’?”

It was a dumb joke. Didn’t even qualify as a joke, really. But I expected the patented Grayson Grin and at least a half-chuckle for my efforts.

I didn’t expect his cheeks to pale under his mask, his shoulders to drop, his eyes to clench shut. Didn’t expect the single word, “Fine” to fall from his lips like an anvil.

Nobody else noticed. Double R started the briefing, Hell Spawn huffed impatiently. Even I just logged it in my mind under “shit to use against Dickface later”.

And I’ll be damned if the op didn’t go off without a hitch. Exactly according to plan, with us barging in on two hot bitches straddling Dick, who was tied to the bed with his boxers. And I should’ve taken the hint; the trembling as he got dressed, the shower immediately after, but I just laughed. Called him a ‘lucky slut’. Because when was Dickie _not_ thinking with his namesake?

Somehow I still managed to be a little pissed when I didn’t hear from him for a week.

——-

** _Now_ **

I wasn’t going anywhere near the fucking morgue. Bruce and Timmy would handle that shit alone. Little D sat home with Alfred, arranging a wake. So it was just me, breaking in to my brother’s 5th floor apartment.

The door swung open on the saddest excuse for a ‘home’ I’d ever seen. And I lived in a cardboard box, once. But even that had more warmth and character than the bare studio. No pictures, no iconic ‘Flying Graysons’ poster on the wall. No cozy blankets and soft pillows, even though sometimes that guy seemed more like a puppy than a person.

Of course not - he’d lost all that.

He’d lost everything.

Why didn’t Tim track down a collectors reproduction of that fucking poster? It was the one thing he took from place to place. Kept him grounded. Why didn’t I pitch up with some books I’d ‘borrowed’ from the Manor, so at least he’d have some company? Why didn’t Bruce make sure he had an actual fucking bed, not a shitty futon that didn’t even fold down? Why didn’t any of us think to check if he had any creature comforts at all, after everything that had happened?

Because he’d said he was ‘fine’.

‘Okay’.

‘Handling it’.

Fucking liar. Didn’t even leave a goddamned letter explaining himself.

But we’d all had loss. Pain. It was basically the admission price for being part of our fucked up family. So why did Dick break? After everything he’d pushed through, pulled us through? Where was his line of ‘too much to bear’?


	3. Heart

Silent. 

Still. 

Even though we all told  
him it was a terrible goddamned idea, Bruce pulled the CCTV footage from the cameras around Dick’s building. And he sat there like a statue, watching the footage cycle through again and again. 

We could only catch about midway through the drop. Cameras aren’t placed on high rise rooftops. But enough was there. Too much. You could see a moment of regret, where he rapidly shifted from serene fall to panicked grappling. But it was too late. The top of the van crumpled under the strain and then he was silent and still. 

Two words I never thought I’d associate with Dick Grayson. 

Knowing he’d changed his mind at the last minute made it worse. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t _have_ to die. 

One hundred and thirty feet. Four seconds. And it only took the first two to bring him clarity. I imagined the terror of the last two seconds, what it was like to know it was done...

Jesus, Dickie. 

We wouldn’t let Damian watch. Even though the kid’s seen more death than your average soldier - this was different. He idolized Dick. 

Hell, we all did. And maybe that was part of how we ended up here. Because idols don’t suffer. Idols don’t break. 

Idols don’t fucking kill themselves. 

——-

** _Two Months Ago_ **

The crash and burn was inevitable. Dick always had a way with women. 

Still, calling off the engagement while he was still standing in the smoldering ruins of his life was a little fucking cold. Even for her. 

But I wasn’t going to pry, or poke fun, ‘cause God knows I’m no Casanova either. So when Dick showed up at one of my safe-houses, looking like shit, I just offered him a beer. 

Gently, he dropped the ring on my makeshift table, accepting the cold bottle but not drinking. 

Ok. So maybe I did poke fun. Just a little. 

“Hell, ‘Wing. If you’re going to propose to me at least make an effort!” 

He didn’t even look up. Just flopped down on the couch with a sigh. He looked so heavy, like gravity worked differently for him, now. His shoulders slumped and his head dropped. 

“Barbara’s done with me.” 

And I should have had a little goddamned empathy. It was a low blow. Barbara was always one of those permanent fixtures in his life and he was coming close to having none of those anymore. 

Instead I dragged him to a strip club. Because the last thing I wanted to do was talk about _feelings_. I even bought him a lap dance because hey, what are brothers for, right? 

Fucking things up, apparently. 

After I slipped her some cash and told her what was what, ‘Cinnamon’ sidled up to him, draping her tanned arms over his shoulders and taking a seat over his thighs. 

“Jayjay says things have been hard for you? Maybe I can make it a little easier?”

I expected a blush, a half grin, a denial...

Not the stuttering of “No, no no...no...”

She tried to help, “Callado, mi amor, it’s just a little fun.”

He looked like he’d been stabbed, suddenly pale and wide eyed. He jumped from his seat, spilling Cinnamon on the floor, and rushed out the back exit with an abrupt, “Sorry...”

I shrugged, handed her another twenty, and followed. 

The door swung open into the alley, and I heard retching and gasping from behind a dumpster. 

“What the hell, Goldie? I was just trying... Ah, fuck.”

I honestly had no idea how he was still standing, he was shaking so bad. I stepped closer, steadying him...

“Get _off_ me!” He spat, stumbling out of reach. 

“What is going on with you? Huh?” I’m sure my anger was doing wonders at helping him open up. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” he was gulping down air, clearly trying not to puke again, “I’m just not feeling great. I’m going to go home...”

“Let me get you a cab...” I was more worried than anything, now. 

“No. You’ve done enough.” The deadpan remark _hurt_, and I just stood there and let him walk away before turning and heading back inside. 

_Fuck you, too, Grayson._

——-

** _Now_ **

Perfunctorily, Alfred cleared away plates of uneaten dinners. Bruce was still in the cave, still torturing himself with different angles of those last few seconds. We all knew what he felt. 

Guilty. Responsible. 

“Did he...” Tim cleared his throat, “did he say _anything_ to any of you? I mean I knew things had been rough, but, honestly he’s come through _worse_.”

Alfred sighed sagely, “Sometimes there is no _one_ catalyst for tragedy...”

“No.” I cut him off. I was in no mood for platitudes. “Something was eating him alive. Did anyone talk to the asshole that let him on the roof?”

Damian had been uncharacteristically quiet, and his sniffly reply sounded nothing like him, “Father and I saw him. Downtown. At the...” he took a breath, “He seemed _simple_, not malicious. Said Grayson went to the roof all the time...”

Tim was in full detective mode now. “And there was nothing out of the norm at his place? No notes, voicemails...” 

“Shit...I didn’t check for voicemails. Everything else was fine, not that there was a whole lot to search. Food in the fridge, clean clothes in the closet...” I was relieved someone else was on my side, trying to figure out who did this. “I can go back...”

“Nah,” Tim pulled out his cell, “I can check it from here.” 

A little bit of Timmy’s techno-wizardry and then...

“You have one new message from yesterday, November 9th, at 5 PM...”

The computerized voice crackled over the speaker, and we all leaned in, holding our breath. 

“Hola Guapo! It’s Cat! I’m free, querido, and I’m coming to see you. Be there soon.”


	4. Soul

Romani custom said we had to bury him as soon as possible. Also said we had to torch his things, but I guess old Blockie did that part for us months ago.

It all seemed stupid to me. The ‘arrangements’. The argument of ‘where’ he should be buried. Damian insisted Dickie was a Wayne and should be in the ‘family’ cemetery, Tim and Alfred wanted him to be with his parents. And Bruce? Who knew? He seemed miles away. 

Nobody asked me. Probably because I thought dead was dead. Proximity to other corpses didn’t matter. And it was a distraction. Because I needed to find Catalina Fucking Flores. None of us _really _knew what had gone down there. Dick was quiet about it, which was weird, because usually he told us about every goddamn detail of his relationships. I swear he didn’t know how to shut up sometimes. 

But _this_ bitch? Other than knowing she shot Blockbuster, we had next to nothing. And based on those credentials, I could see the appeal. Except I knew in my bones it was _her fault_. That she had taken something from him, hollowed him out and left something rotten instead. 

And then the phone call. She came back for more...

Oh, God. Dickie. 

Why didn’t you tell me? 

You tried to, didn’t you? Over and over again. 

Why didn’t I notice?

——-

_ **Two Weeks Ago** _

Halloween weekend in Gotham. 

What a time to be alive. 

Unless you’re of the ‘masked vigilante’ persuasion. Then it fucking sucks. Violent crimes skyrocket, thefts and break-ins abound. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned trick-or-treating? 

This year was especially shitty. Scarecrow was out on the town. In a sea of masked kids and tired adults just trying to make it to a candy-addled bedtime. Completely unaware that a psychopath was planning on gassing them all. 

Which, of course, we weren’t going to let happen. But finding the bombs, or even the ugly fucker himself was proving… time consuming. Oracle had the ‘explosives search’ covered, so the four of us were all sitting on a nearby rooftop, chatting, watching, and waiting for hell to break loose. 

“There, that one, that’s mine.” Nightwing nudged Robin with his shoulder, and pointed to the sky. 

“_That_ is Alpha Andromeda, Grayson. And anyway, you can’t _own_ a star” Damian argued. They had been bantering about constellations for entirely too long. 

“Sure I can,” Dick chuckled in reply, “I have a certificate and everything. Got it for my 13th birthday. Just ask Oracle.”

“What would you need a star for, anyway?” Tim leaned back, dropping his binoculars away from his face for a second. “Not a very _practical_ gift.”

“I don’t know…” Goldie sighed, like he always did when he was about the pretend to be introspective and _wise_, “That star’s gotten me through a lot of bad nights. It’s just a reminder that I have people back home rooting for me.”

I snorted, “Right. And what if it’s fucking raining? You going to look up at the sky and name a cloud? Or do you just forget that we’ll always have your back, whether or not you can see a stupid ball of gas?” 

He slipped into sullenness. He’d been doing that a _lot_ recently, and I hated it. I didn’t know what it meant. Not that I ever seemed to have a spare fucking moment to _think_ about it. 

“Crane Toxin signatures detected on Amusement Mile” Oracle’s terse update brought us all to our feet. Every year the city sponsored a costume party out that way. It would be packed. Which means it would be a bloodbath if Crane had his way. So we went to work, fast, silent, and practiced. 

Nightwing took point. “Any idea on _where_ those signatures came from, Oracle? Because it’s a madhouse up here. Manual search could take too long.”

“Near the water. Drone is showing heat signatures under the boardwalk, and residual concentration is highest there.”

“Swimming in October it is. How many?” 

“Three.”

Nightwing exhaled sharply, sliding into the leadership role he knew so well, “Hood, Robin - you’re on crowd control. Get as many people off that boardwalk and away from the mile as possible. Double R - you and I will handle diffusion or controlled detonation, whichever comes first.”

I nodded to Hell Brat, he glared back. We all moved out. 

As much as I hated him sometimes, I had to hand it to the kid - he knew his way around small explosives. As I was shouting, “Everyone, move!”, he set off a series of small detonations, each producing an angry, acrid cloud that covered the boardwalk and sent the party-goers scrambling. All we had to do next was avoid a stampede. Sheep herding time. He split the crowd with another charge; a flashbang. One massive group became two, and we each took a side, screaming over the din. It didn’t take long before the pier was deserted.

“Our evacuation mission is complete,” Robin relayed over the comm, “What’s your status?”

“Not great,” Red Robin replied, “We took care of two, I cracked the vial on the third. Nightwing got a face full of gas before I was able to neutralize it, then he took off. Following his signal now, but I’ll need backup. Forgot how _fast_ he was.”

Lucky for us, he didn’t get far before the toxin completely took over. We found him huddled in an alley with his knees tucked under his chin and tears dripping over the edges of his mask. 

“Ah, shit. Replacement, Demon Brat, stay back. I got this one.” I took off my helmet and chucked it at Damian, ignoring his argument that he was somehow ‘better suited’ to help.

Bullshit. Goldie and I have logged more hours tripping balls than anyone else in the family, except _maybe_ the Old Man. And he wasn’t here, so it was down to me. I approached low, whispering and making myself as small as possible. Nightwing had a tendency to get nasty under the influence of fear gas, and provoking him was _not_ on my ‘to do’ list. I was prepared for rage, blind fear and survival. But this…

“Don’t...don’t, please. I can’t breathe. Don’t touch me. I’m so sorry…” a breathless stream of apologies and begging. 

I matched his volume and snuck closer, “Hey, Dickie. You’re ok. It’s me, Jaybird.” I just had to get close enough to jab him with the antidote. Only a few more steps…

He locked eyes on me and I froze. I knew what was coming next. He would lunge, panicked and coiled tension knocking me down, and then he would rain blows until I managed to stab him. 

Except, that’s not what happened this time. He seemed clear and sober as he choked out, “I didn’t want it. You have to believe me. I didn’t want to do it. I couldn’t stop her…” And then he slipped back into the terrified mewling of before. At last, I could reach him, and I jammed the thick needle into the exposed skin above his collar. He sagged back against the wall, shaky breath hitching, and he whispered just before his tight muscles relaxed while the antidote pushed him under, for his own sake, “I told her to stop and she didn’t. And I couldn’t find my star.”

\------

_ **Now** _

I didn’t give that night a second thought. We all knew Dickie blamed himself for Blockbuster’s death. But even Bats himself had deigned to forgive his golden son, and that seemed to be enough. I was sure that was what he was rambling about; his perceived ‘failure’ at saving a life. Even if that life belonged to a sadistic dumpster fire of a person. I know better, now. I should have known better, then. 

Catalina Flores raped my brother. It was the only conclusion that fit. She raped him and now he’s dead.

_She_ killed him. 

I kept this newfound knowledge to myself. The ‘family’ wouldn’t approve of what I was going to do next. Of what had to be done. But I was beyond needing approval. No matter what Batman says, some crimes can only be met with vengeance. I wasn’t going to let her destroy him then walk away. And that’s a fucking promise, too.


	5. Shadow

“Jason.”

Bruce’s voice creaked from disuse. He’d barely spoken since _it_ happened. He’d found me alone in the kitchen and decided to talk. But I wasn’t feeling very conversational myself so I snapped back, “What?”

“Was he using drugs?”

That was a question I didn’t expect. Was Golden Boy using drugs? Of course not. He barely even drank. Said he didn’t like the ‘taste’. As if that were the point of drinking. Bruce waited expectantly for a reply, and though I was in no mood to deal with a Bat-style interrogation, I thought I’d cut him a little slack and just answer straight. 

“Are you insane? No. Why?”

He stared at me; analyzing. Attempting to see through any potential lie. Weighing his words, like he always did. 

“I have a preliminary report from the coroner. He was on Ketamine.”

I rocked back, stunned. Not because I thought Dickie was picking up Special K on the docks or anything. Hell, I didn’t think _I_ even knew who sold it in Gotham, anymore. But because it pointed to something a _lot_ more sinister. You could knock a rhino down with barely a whiff of the stuff. And it worked fast. 

Flores _drugged_ him. Maybe. Probably. How else would she get him to shut up and take whatever she wanted to do to him? My brain oh-so-helpfully supplied images of Dick, stoned out of his mind, underneath the cackling bitch. Him coming to, realizing what had been done to him _again_, then defeated and alone, staggering up to the roof...

Bruce noticed my lack of response, the gears turning. “What do you know? What are you keeping from me?”

Briefly, I considered denying it all. This was my score to settle, and I was going to do it _my_ way. She wouldn’t see jail for this, she’d see _hell_. But something in the Old Man’s eyes told me he might be game for that, too. And at the very least, I could use some Batman-expertise in tracking her down. 

“What do you know about Dick and Catalina Flores? Did he say anything to you…?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know much. He told me even less.”

“And that didn’t strike you as weird? That the guy who couldn’t stop waxing poetic about _Captain Crunch_ kept his mouth shut about a chick he was with?” And I thought _I_ was dense. But I wanted _him_ to connect the dots. If I told him outright what had happened, he would have denied it, said I was jumping to conclusions. I know enough of how he works. “It didn’t seem off that _before_ her he would hug anyone who stood still too long, and _after_ he looked like he would puke at the thought of someone so much as touching him?”

Put it together, Old Man. If the signs were obvious for me, they had to be practically neon for him. 

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying, Jason?”

“What do you _think_ I’m saying, Bruce?”

Shaking his head and closing his eyes, he took a long, trembling breath. Maybe it wasn’t fair to expect him to figure it out through a cloud of grief. But when he blinked again, it was clear. He _knew_.

“She _assaulted_ him.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a quiet declaration, dripping with rage. And exactly what I’d hoped. 

“She was paroled two days ago. And guess who she called, first?” I could see the wrath bleeding color back into his face. Not Bruce anymore. Batman. 

“She _drugged_ him.” Another statement, punctuated with rising fury. 

“Of course she did. He would have fought back if she didn’t.” I was leaning into it now, goading him. I needed him savage, vengeful. A side of the Bat that was always lurking under the cold stone facade. 

“She _killed_ him.” Each syllable was so enraged that it felt like a punch to the gut. 

Attaboy, Bruce. Now we make her pay.

\------

_ **Three Days Ago** _

The kitchen table was _covered_ in papers. Charts. Maps. And Hell Spawn sat in the chair beside it, carefully considering each one. Normally, I’d have left well enough alone. I wasn’t interested in getting involved in whatever weird side-project this probably was. But a gaudy, gold embossed certificate with Dickie’s name spelled out in calligraphy caught my eye. 

“Whatcha doing, brat?”

Dami huffed and rolled his eyes. “If you _must_ know, I am winning an argument. Grayson still insists that he not only _owns_ a star, but that he owns one of the brightest stars in our galaxy. It’s absurd, and I will not let an outrageous claim like that stand. So I intend to find irrefutable evidence that he is _wrong_.”

“Oh. Wow. Yeah. I definitely don’t care about that. Just leave him alone. He wants to believe he owns a star, let him. Not like he’s hurting anyone.”

“_Thank_ you, Little Wing.” Dick appeared out of the pantry with a jar of peanut butter and a smile I hadn’t seen in ages. He stuck his tongue out at Damian, then grabbed a loaf of bread and proceeded to messily make a sandwich over some of the carefully crafted notes on the table. 

“I will end you, Grayson” Damian growled. 

“Big talk for someone who managed to spell ‘galaxy’ wrong.” Dick had cocked his head to the side, perusing the scratchings on the top piece of paper. Dami snatched up his ‘research’, and with a final glare, stalked from the room. 

“You two are idiots.” I sank down into the now-vacant chair and grabbed some bread for myself, “You do know those ‘own a star’ things are scams, right?”

“Of course,” he shrugged, a mischievous smirk blossoming on his face, “I just picked a star at random years ago. I liked it. Stupid thing is I practically have to lean half off the roof to see the thing from my new place. Should’ve picked a better one.”

“Or, you know, grab a beer when you’re stressed, like a regular person.” The banter felt good. _Normal_. Things hadn’t been like this in a long time. He seemed _happy_, in spite of the spectacularly shitty year he’d had. But that was Dick. He bounced back from things that would destroy the strongest of us. It’s why we tolerated the horrible puns and poorly executed pranks. 

He was _our_ star. 

\------

_ **Now** _

Bruce had turned rage suppression into an art form. It was one of the most infuriating things about him. Instead of channeling that anger, _using_ it, he swallowed it, drowning it in logic and deduction.

Which, I guess, was how we found ourselves in Dickie’s apartment again. He wanted _proof_, not conjecture. I watched him impatiently as he scanned each corner, each wrinkle or out of place dust-bunny in the tiny studio. He approached the sink and pulled out two tumblers. One covered in a powdery film. Pulling a small black box from his bag, he grabbed a swab and methodically sampled the bottom of the glass, then doused the end in a clear solution. It immediately dripped bright orange, which I assumed meant it was positive for Ketamine. Of course it was. 

Did you _really_ have a drink with her, Dickie? Christ, what were you thinking?

“We good?” I wanted to get going. She didn’t deserve any stays of execution. 

“This proves there were drugs, not that she was here.” He had returned to his methodical search.

“Right. Because he probably just shared a drink with a random person that happened to drug him. Days after his rapist got out of jail. I thought you were the _logical_ one?”

His eyes settled on the futon pressed against the back wall, and he stepped over to it, crouching down and snapping on a pair of gloves. He reached his hand under and pulled out a dry, used condom. “We need to get this back to the ‘cave. Her DNA should be in CODIS.”

“Will that be enough evidence for you, Bruce? If we prove she was here, and she drugged him, will you get out of my way and let me do what _needs_ to be done.” I stood, clenching my fists, waiting as he closed his eyes, considering. 

“Yes, Jason. I will.”


	6. Spark

After Bruce left, I sank down onto the futon, trying to recapture some of _him_. My brother. My friend. If only for a moment, I wanted to beat back at the cloud of rage in my mind and just miss him. But there were too many unanswered questions, too many niggles in the narrative I had built to explain what had happened. Why would Goldie open the door for her, much less entertain her with a drink? If she drugged him and raped him in the apartment, how the fuck did he end up on the roof? Even with his conditioned tolerances, K would have knocked him down completely for hours. He would have been groggy and disoriented for half a day. He’d have had to be damned determined to drag himself up there, only to fling himself off. 

Like it was a pilgrimage, I decided to trace his final steps. Out of the apartment door, into the hallway. Did he take the stairs, or the elevator? Dickie was always a kinetic force to be reckoned with; he probably took the stairs, assuming he walked up there himself. As I climbed, a creeping dread filled my stomach. _What if he didn’t jump? What if _she_ dragged him up here and tossed him off?_ It wasn’t entirely impossible. Especially if he was wasted. I tucked the thought away and focused on working my way to the top.

The access door to the roof was locked because _of course it was_. I’m sure the building owners didn’t want to encourage any repeat performances. I realized there was no way _she_ was up here with him - he’d asked to have the door opened. Dami said the building super was ‘simple’, but I doubt he’d have forgotten a minor detail like, ‘he was practically unconscious and being dragged by some bitch’. 

I pulled out my knife and slipped it into the door jamb, wrenching the lock open. Unlike Dickie, I didn’t give a shit about property damage. A gust of ice cold air pushed the door open, and I stepped out onto the roof. 

I don’t know what I was expecting. Somehow I thought things would look different, changed by what had happened. But it was just a roof, with satellite dishes and vents poking out at random intervals. The view wasn’t even that great - the apartment was surrounded by larger, more imposing buildings. Only a sliver of smoggy night sky was visible near the corner. Almost automatically, I walked to that edge, craning my neck down and looking at the pavement. Fuck. _This_ was where it happened. I recognized the alley from the footage. 

He jumped from here. 

It was overwhelming, standing where he stood. I looked up, trying and failing to keep long-held tears from spilling over…

And then I saw it. I had to lean out a little, pitching my body awkwardly over the edge to get a better angle…

That fucking star. Bright enough to shine over the pollution and lights of the city. 

_His star_.

Rapid fire conclusions came together, and I staggered back, nearly dizzy, falling to my knees in a haze. He didn’t jump. 

He. Didn’t. Jump.

He _fell_.

She raped him, got what she fucking came for and left him. He came up here to _center_ himself. He didn’t give up - he just needed to find his hope, his reminder of home and family. And so, doped up on Ketamine, probably nodding off, he dragged himself out here, tipped over the edge…

And didn’t realize he was falling until it was too late. 

Was it relief? Grief? Rage? I couldn’t identify the emotion behind the tears i didn’t fucking want. The only thing that was clear was that _She_ murdered him. Not in some abstract, drove him to it, sense. She drugged him and he fell. And I felt sick, because I think a part of me blamed _him_ until this moment - blamed him for acting like fucking Batman and bottling up trauma until it killed him. 

But that was gone, now. All that was left was white hot fury and a clear target. Catalina Flores was a dead-woman walking. 

\-----

_ **Two Years Ago** _

“We need to talk.”

It wasn’t the deep gravelly brusque I had expected when I heard the footfalls behind me. Instead, the voice was light, lilting, and dripping with saccharine concern. 

“What? Old Man too busy so he sends his favorite stooge?” I turned to face Nightwing, aching for a fight. 

“Batman didn’t send me. I was hoping I could talk… to my brother.”

Goddamn, Golden Boy was _slick_. He _almost_ pulled at my heartstrings with that one. 

“So talk. But if it’s the same bullshit from before about forgiving Bruce and moving on, I’m out.” I stepped closer, enjoying the fact that I practically towered over him.

“It’s not bullshit.” He craned his neck up slightly to make eye contact, but he didn’t back down, “And really, it’s got nothing to do with _Him_. I missed you, Jason. If you won’t talk to him, fine. But we’re family. For better or worse. And let’s face it, that ‘family’ is all either of us really have.” 

“Fuck. You. You don’t get to come here and make _me_ feel like shit for _his_ fuck ups. Family? Where I come from, family doesn’t throw you away like garbage, doesn’t forget you just because…” 

He lowered his eyes to the tar paper roof under his feet, “I never forgot you, Jason. _We_ never did. And I won’t tell you what to do. All I know is, if you want _freedom_ from all of this, a chance to move beyond it all and really leave it behind, you’re going to have to tackle _forgiveness_.”

I think I must’ve growled, because he tensed before the reply, fingers flexing subtly, preparing for a confrontation. “What a fucking joke. He wants me to let him off the hook for… everything? He can go to Hell.” 

“Forgiving doesn’t mean that. It just means…” he sighed, that old sigh that said ‘I am wise and you are not’, “It means that you aren’t going to waste any more rage on him. Forgiveness just means moving on. And I think you, more than any of us, have earned that right.” 

\-----

_ **Now** _

No one could speak. The results were back, my conclusions made sense to the others, and the picture was complete. They sat around the table, dumbfounded. _She_ was there, the DNA confirmed it. Goldie must’ve let her in, maybe in a half-cocked effort to practice the forgiveness he loved to preach. The why didn’t matter. 

“She’s dead. I’ll kill her with my bare hands.” Damian’s determined whisper shattered the silence.

“We’ll bring her in,” Tim attempted to clarify, ignoring the flare of anger in the hell brat’s eyes at being talked over, patronized. But I understood. The kid meant what he fucking said. 

Bruce said nothing, but dragged his eyes away from the floor to meet mine in a silent warning.

_Say Nothing. Don’t involve them. Stick to the plan._

I was honestly impressed that the Old Man was keeping his promise. He was actually going to stay out of my fucking way and let me do the necessary thing. For Dick. Because he deserved better. Because now we knew he didn’t want to die. But that didn’t make him any less dead. And it didn’t make him any less _wrong_.

There was no forgiveness for monsters. Only retribution. Now, it was time to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not my best chapter. I hope you enjoy anyway and I will do my best to put up a solid chapter next time!


	7. Pretend

It was today. His funeral. Not that I had any intention of attending. Dickie wouldn’t have asked me to go. Something about being dead once already sours a guy on committal ceremonies. _He_ would have understood. Known that the smell of fresh-turned earth and mothball tainted suits churned my stomach. Bruce didn’t dare ask me to come, but Damian was upset, and Tim eyed me with suspicion. 

“What are you planning on doing instead, Jason?” he had asked.

I could tell he already knew, and disapproved. But I was going to be a good soldier, for once, and keep my promise to Bruce. “None of your business, replacement.” I spat. 

They decided to bury him with his parents, after all. The Old Man had been the deciding vote. Secretly, it made me happy. Dick was _never_ Bruce’s son. There was too much spark, brightness and lightness, in his soul for him to be a Wayne. 

While the others stood in the freezing cold, waiting for a box with the crushed remains of a man, my brother, to be lowered into a hole, I traipsed alleys and bars, asking for _her_. Because I wasn’t going to wait a minute longer to put a rapist and murderer down. 

As I finished up harassing some low level hit men about ‘Tarantula’, my cell pinged in my pocket. A text from Bruce. From the cemetery? I rolled my eyes at the thought of the ‘family’ diddling with their phones while some priest droned on about a man he never knew. Then I read the words. 

_”She’s here”_

Searing rage swept through my chest, and I imagined her sobbing - not over the loss of life, but because she couldn’t _use_ him anymore. 

I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and replied,

_”On my way.”_

——-

** _One Year Ago_ **

I wasn’t sure what hurt worse, the bullet in my arm or the fact that I now had fucking Golden Boy up my ass, mother-henning me to death. 

“Stay still!” He sounded like Alfred, huffing and fretting with each stitch. Should’ve just done it myself. But ‘Wing saw it all go down so _of course_ he wouldn’t leave me alone. 

“It’s literally just a graze. You’re being dramatic, Dickface. If you’re finished, you can get out.” It wasn’t a graze, and he wasn’t finished, but it was worth a shot. 

“I won’t leave you, Jason. Not till I know where your head is. This could have been a _lot_ worse. You were distracted.” He packed up the remains for the suture kit and chucked it in the trash, then turned back to face me with a raised eyebrow. 

“Because you’ve _never_ made a mistake, right?”

He opened his mouth, preparing for what was probably an automatic denial, then he closed it again. Imagine that. Dick Grayson at a loss for words. 

He sighed, but not that obnoxious, patronizing sigh. He seemed genuinely tired, sad - overwhelmed. “I’ve messed up plenty, Jason. Probably my biggest mistake was not being a better brother to you. And I’m sorry it took… _tragedy_ to realize I was such an ass. I’m trying to make up for it, so if I seem more than a little worried about you, I guess I’m _not_ sorry about that.” 

Well shit. I didn’t expect this night to take a turn into Oprah Winfrey territory. “Yeah well. You didn’t do as bad as you think - you don’t give yourself enough credit. So you can lose the guilt, ok? It’s annoying.”

“Aren’t big brothers supposed to be annoying?” There it was, that big, goofy grin. 

Maybe the dumbass was growing on me, after all. 

——-

_ **Now** _

I stood back from the crowd. It was honestly the biggest funeral I had ever seen. Superheroes in civvies, cops, Wayne associates… it had to be hundreds. And this was just internment. More would probably come for the wake at the manor. But I didn’t care about the sentimental crap right now. I scanned relentlessly for _her_. And I’d be damned if Bruce wasn’t right - she was there, hanging back from the crowd, too; dressed in black with her glassy eyes fixed forward. A portrait of make-believe grief. It took every ounce of self control I had to not fucking end her right there. 

How _dare_ she come? How dare she defile his memory? 

Suddenly, there was activity at the gravesite - people dropping roses on top of his casket and filing away. The majority of the crowd dispersed. It was done. The burial, at least. But I kept my eyes on Catalina; my stomach turned as she wiped away a tear.

She turned away, walking back to a black rental car parked on top of a hill, out of the view of the mourners. Perfect. I sprinted ahead and crouched behind the trunk, waiting. As soon as I heard her open the drivers door, I jumped into the passenger's seat, weapon drawn. 

She screamed, but froze in place, trembling in fear. Good. I wanted her _terrified_. 

“Por favor, I don’t have any money, but you can take the car…”

I scoffed, leaned in menacingly, and then commanded, “Drive.”


	8. Absolution

I already picked out the place. An abandoned restaurant 15 minutes from the cemetery - tile was easier to hose down than cement, and walk-in freezers were surprisingly soundproof. She was mercifully silent for the entire trip, though I could see her thinking, trying to deduce who I was and why I wanted her. As if it wasn’t obvious. Sins like hers don’t wash away easily. 

Or maybe ‘Wing had taught her a few tricks after all, and she was planning an escape, pretending to be afraid and helpless. Whatever it was, I was ready. This was her last ride. 

“Here,” I jerked my head to the right and she turned into the empty parking lot, “Around the back.” 

As soon as she pulled into a space, she leapt out and took off running.

Good. I didn’t want this to be too easy. It wouldn’t be _really_ worth it if she didn’t suffer first. Even if it was only a fraction of the pain _she_ forced Dickie to endure. 

Calmly, I opened my door and stood, taking aim over the roof. A silenced bullet tore through the back of her knee and she tumbled to the blacktop. No turning back now. 

She started to crawl away, hissing angrily, “What do you want?”

I swung my boot into the side of her head, and it snapped to the side. Her body went limp - unconscious, not dead… yet. Not that quickly. I heaved her over my shoulders, hoping she could hear my reply as her world was probably fuzzing and blackening before her eyes.

“I want justice, bitch.”

——-

_ **Eight Days Ago** _

Wayne Manor. When I first came here, a hungry and cold street kid, I was blown away. The decadence was something I used to secretly fantasize about on nights when my stomach twisted on itself, empty and angry. But it didn’t feel like home, not really. It was at once too barren and too _much_. 

But recently I was spending more than my fair share of time here. After patrol breakfasts, check ins and reports in the ‘cave… it wasn’t so much ‘home’ as a ‘convenient base of operations’. And Alfred’s cooking was always worth it. So once I was finished menacing the underworld for the night, I headed back out to the Palisades and through the back door. 

I wandered into the kitchen to find Tim blearily staring into a cup of coffee. He barely grunted in acknowledgement of my presence, then turned his attention back to the laptop on the table. 

“Where is everyone?” 

Tim shrugged, “Dick and Dami are on the couch. Still sleeping. It wasn’t a great night. Bruce is Brucing about it, so he’s downstairs. Alfred’s out.” 

Great. Shit went down. And I was just starting to _like_ ‘family’ breakfast. I plodded out to the sitting room to find Dick sprawled out on the leather sofa with Dami’s head pillowed on his chest. They were both covered in bruises, and hell brat’s black eye was swelling down into his cheek. ‘Not a great night?’ That was a fucking understatement. Someone beat the crap out of them. 

Dick opened an eye and lifted a finger to his split lips with a conspiratorial grin, shushing me. The consummate big brother. 

“What the hell happened?” I whispered. 

Dick sighed and gently slid out from under Damian, rolling his eyes, then holding his breath for a moment while the _boy_ stirred and settled. He waved me into the hallway. 

“His ego is _way_ more bruised than his face. Ran afoul of Solomon Grundy last night. Thought he could take on a ‘C-lister’ by himself…”

“Grundy is no fucking C-lister. Jesus, he could’ve had his stupid head crushed.” It was my turn to roll my eyes. “And let me guess, your dumb ass jumped in to save his dumb ass.”

“Got it in one. But like you said, it could’ve been a lot worse.” He shook his head and sighed, raking his hand through his hair. Stressed. “Now he’s benched for being reckless, Bruce is acting like we _never_ pulled stunts like this, and I’m stuck playing mediator.”

“Don’t lie, you love it.”

He chuckled a little, forced - like he was pretending to be himself and failing. He seemed so damn _tired_ these days. He spoke with a smile but there was no humor in his eyes. “You know, one of these days you all will leave me alone long enough for me to deal with my _own_ problems.”

“Right. Like Golden Boy has _problems_. What, did they discontinue your hair gel or something?” There was too much bite to my retort and I regretted it as I watched him wince. Maybe _neither_ of us knew when to shut the fuck up. 

He furrowed his brow and inhaled, suddenly serious, “Actually, Jay, do you think we could talk? Things have been… hard recently. I could use a shoulder?”

I didn’t get a chance to answer. Hell Spawn was awake, and he stomped out into the hall, huffing, with his arms crossed over his chest, “The two of you squawk louder than peahens. I was told I was supposed to be _resting_, which is impossible with you gossiping in the corridor. Has Pennyworth prepared breakfast, yet?”

A genuine smile replaced Dick’s beleaguered one and he pulled Damian into a tolerated hug, “Aww, you’re adorable when you’re mad.”

Damian made a face, and Dick laughed, rich and real. Whatever problems Dickie had, they could wait. Right?

\------

** _Now_ **

Memories of him burned in my chest, an ache that I couldn’t ignore, even as I set to work cuffing _Her_ and waiting for her to wake up. I shouldn’t have put him off, assumed he was ok. Maybe if I’d have listened, I’d have been there to talk him out of whatever fucking possesed him to give this filth a shot at redemption. Maybe. 

Maybe not.

Dickie loved giving out those second chances. And third. And fourth. Goddamned bleeding heart. Leave it to him to die from relentless _hope_. Because if he’d had an ounce of cynical good sense he wouldn’t have let her in… 

Fuck. No. This was not his fault. Not his fault that a user and a scum sucker exploited him. For fun. I crouched down in front of her swinging wide and connecting my open palm on her cheek. She inhaled sharply and looked at me, eyes filling with tears.

“Wake up, Flores. I want you to know _exactly_ why you deserve what’s coming next. Want you to know exactly what you _destroyed_.” I pressed my gun against her forehead, ignoring the choked-back sob. “You raped my brother. You _murdered_ him. He was the best man I have ever known, and you didn’t care. And now he’s gone.” 

For the first time in my life, I felt my hand shaking on the grip as her eyes went wide in understanding, finally realizing who I was, and that I _knew_ just what the fuck she was. I couldn’t stop myself from listening as she whispered breathlessly, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I loved him, too.”

“Bullshit. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

I pulled the trigger, and felt satisfaction in the recoil. I refused to break her gaze as her eyes deadened and she slumped to the floor. 

_It’s done Dickie. She can’t hurt anyone else ever again._


	9. Blowback

Dusk had crept into the sky by the time I finished cleaning up. Body weighted in the bay, car wiped out and picked up, tile and aluminum scrubbed with bleach, then peroxide. It was like she never existed. 

Except she did. She fucking did, and now I have to deal with the open gash in my heart where my brother used to live. We all have to deal with it. Because of her. 

I couldn’t go back to the manor. I didn’t _want_ to go back to the cave, but I knew the Old Man was waiting for news, waiting for _me_. So I doubled back to a safehouse, grabbed a bike, and headed out. Out of the city, into the encroaching darkness. 

The sky lit up with constellations as the street lights and neons faded behind me. Then they were blotted out again, this time by brush and trees as I made my way to the back entrance to the ‘cave. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t risk the emotions that would spill out if I saw that fucking star again. Not until the job was _really_ finished. And that meant reporting in. 

I expected to find Batman waiting for me - ice cold and expressionless. The mask was as much a coping mechanism as it was a tool of intimidation. But it was Bruce. Just Bruce - silhouetted by the dim blue light of the computers and gadgets behind him. 

That made a certain sense, though. Batman, the vigilante, might not condone murder and vengeance; but maybe Bruce, the grieving father, could justify it. 

The Old Man really looked the part now, his face grey and worn, eyes bloodshot and red rimmed. Seeing him like this felt like a punch to the gut. He looked so feeble, broken. Sighing, he placed a feather light hand on my shoulder and searched my face. 

“It’s done?”

“It’s done, Bruce.”

“What’s _ done_?” Replacement’s voice echoed from the shadows, dripping with disdain, and he stepped into view. “What did you do?” 

Scowling, I faced him, shoulders back, prepared to defend. I didn’t need to. Bruce’s voice creaked in reply, “He did what was necessary, Tim. He did what had to be done.” 

——-

_ **Six Years Ago** _

They say you should never meet your heroes. You’ll be disappointed. 

Except I didn’t know I was meeting mine - it was just some prick called Nightwing in Batman’s city. _My_ city. Creeping up on _my_ drug bust, telling me _my_ business. Saving me when I didn’t need saving. 

Maybe that last bit was a lie. 

Because I _had_ fallen through a fucking skylight and was surrounded by runners and dealers with guns. He jumped after me, smooth-talking his way out of there, dragging me behind him. 

And he did point out some obvious shit I missed - like the fact that a lab has to be _active_ to make a bust worthwhile. I felt like a goddamn idiot. Worse. Like a _child_. 

Then Bruce told me Nightwing was Dick Grayson, the Robin before me. And he didn’t hate my guts. He didn’t want to take my job. He just gave me his blessing and his phone number in case things got fucked and I couldn’t talk to Bruce. 

But I never called. I was too tough. I didn’t think I needed him. I was too selfish to think that _he_ might’ve needed a brother, and he’d picked me. An honor I threw away the first chance I got. 

——-

** _Now_ **

Bruce’s response hung in the air, and Tim’s angry breaths echoed around it. He shook his head, “You made Jason _kill her_. Didn’t you, Bruce? In spite of everything you taught us, everything Dick stood for? You didn’t even bother to talk to me? I spent hours tracking down her source for the Ketamine! She was on parole; just _possessing_ it was enough to put her back in prison for the rest of her 10 year sentence. We could have had justice for Dick! We could have shown everyone what _she_ really was! What she did to him! And you threw it away!” 

Batman wouldn’t have backed down from a challenge like that, but Bruce shifted his eyes to the ground. “The world doesn’t need to know. Not something like this. Dick deserved a chance at keeping his reputation untarnished.” 

“Untarnished?!” It was my turn to be furious. I grabbed Bruce by his shirt, forced him to look at me. “Are you fucking kidding me?! This wasn’t just some dirty little secret, Bruce. He was a _victim_! She raped him!” I felt sick as a new realization dawned on me, “You didn’t step aside so I could get revenge, did you? You used me to keep this quiet! You’re… ashamed of him!” 

Bruce didn’t step back. His expression was tight, pained, and his eyes glistened with unspilled tears, “No. No, Jason. Never. He meant… means so much to so many people. I couldn’t bear the thought of her using what she did to muddy the waters, ruining everything he lived for. He needs to be remembered as a symbol of hope, because that’s what he was. What he is - his legacy.”

Tim looked horrified, “You’re wrong, Bruce. He’s not a symbol. He was our brother, your _son_. She could never have taken that from him. And he deserved better than to have everything he ever fought for thrown down the drain because it made you feel uncomfortable.” 

I was too enraged to speak. Once again, I’d been set up and used by Bruce. I didn’t care what he said, I was very familiar with the look of shame in his eyes. 

He blamed Dick. Blamed him for being too open, too forgiving, too _physical_. And he just wanted to make it all go away so he could forget and pretend that Dick was nothing more than another fallen soldier. 

I knew that trick too well. 

But Dickie was more than ‘a good soldier’. He was my fucking brother. And Timmy was right, he deserved so much better. 

——-

_**Five Months Later**_

It was too cold to really seem like spring yet, and the frozen blades of grass crunched under my feet. I skirted around the larger headstones, searching. Then I saw them. John Grayson. Mary Grayson. 

Richard Grayson. Son. Brother. _Hero_. Not that we could include that last part. Bruce still kept his secrets buried. 

I ran a gloved hand over the chiseled marble. It had been so long, or had it? Because right now it seemed like yesterday. I puffed my cheeks out, feeling awkward, before huffing out a clouded breath. 

“Hey, bro. Happy Birthday. I should’ve come to see you sooner, Dickie - I’m sorry. You know how much graveyards freak me out. 

Not a whole lot has changed, you know.  
Bruce and Dami are still doing their thing - Hell Spawn was actually happy about… what I did. But I can’t stop thinking about it. She wasn’t the first, but she’ll be the last, and she’s the one I regret the most, Goldie. Cause I know you would have hated how we handled things. 

Timmy will never forgive Bruce. He resigned from Wayne Enterprises almost immediately, left Gotham, left ‘the life’. We tried to keep in touch, him and me, but he’s got some tech startup in Paris, now. He’s busy. I get it. 

Babs misses you. A lot. She blames herself, I think. We all kinda do. We all dropped the ball. You shouldn’t have had to handle all that alone. 

I heard Dami comes to visit every week. He’s got a fucking dog now, I think? Never pictured him as the soft and cuddly type, you know. Guess he needed someone like you, and a dog was the logical choice. 

I’m joking. I swear. 

Alfred’s good. I guess. I think he’s still hurting, too. Like Tim. He won’t talk to me. Not that I’ve been trying that hard, if I’m being honest. There hasn’t been much of a family since you...

I actually came here to ask your permission, I guess? It’s stupid, I know. You’re not really _here_, but it’s symbolic, right? You’d appreciate that. 

Bruce got one thing right - you meant a lot to so many people. You were the hope we all needed. And I think… I think I _need_ to step into your shoes, to really do right by you. Wear the blue and black, do the noble shit, right? Because nobody really needs Red Hood. But so many people counted on Nightwing. 

And maybe it’s a shitty idea. I don’t know. All I know is I met my hero, and I wasn’t disappointed. You taught me so fucking much, and I want to show everyone what kind of guy you were. 

Hope that’s ok. Hope you’d be proud. 

I love you.” 

I shut my eyes, but the tears came anyway. What was it Dick said? 

_”My biggest mistake was not being a better brother to you. And I’m sorry it took… tragedy to realize I was such an ass”_

Yeah, Goldie. Same. 

A light rustling noise broke me away from my memories, and I stared down at the headstone in disbelief. 

A robin looked back at me, curiously. Tilting its head before taking off, disappearing in the flare of the sun. 

“Thank you, Dick. I’ll make you proud. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t quite know what to say - this has been an emotional and amazing ride for me, and I cannot thank you all enough for your encouragement and love! But I’ll try! Thank you for the comments and kudos - you really transformed this project from a quick Drabble to a real story that I can be proud of!


End file.
